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“Oi, eejit.  Time to wake up.”  Frank came around, and found himself to be sitting in a chair in a room that resembled a prison.  His first thought was to scratch his back, but was annoyed to find his hands were tied.

A slap across the face caused him to focus angrily.  “What the hell was that fer?”

A police officer slammed his hand down on the wooden table.  “Here’s how it’s going to work, chump.  ‘Ou play some damn good football with us or yeh go to juvenile prison for…” he looked at another officer.  “How many years is he at now possibly Eadan?”

The second policemen drew his baton, and began tapping it against his other hand.  Walking around Frank, he leaned down until his head was level with Frank’s, and whispered in his ear, “You’ve got twenty-five, maybe thirty years for property damage, association with crime, vandalism, and possible murder.  Jesus only knows how the jury’s going to take that, even if you reach one.  Now, we can wipe this slate clean if you help us out.  But only—only”—Frank twitched as spittle flecked his ear, his body shaking.  “If you do exactly as we ruddy say.  You feckin’ follow?”

“I-I swear to holy Mary, I did it all arseways!  I’m just trying to hold me family together; it’s not like what you think.”

A loud crack against the table broke it in half.  “I don’t think yeh follow, yeh little caffler!  We’ll knock you sideways before you set foot in Sing Sing”—

Frank wailed out of despair.  “I have rights!  Where’s me mum, or me lawyer?  I’ll help, but”—

“I am in me wick today!  A little muzzer like yeh c’not afford no bloody lawyer!  Besides a waffler, we’ve got enough evidence to kill a junkie like yeh now…”

The officer in front of him cracked his knuckles, the sounds causing goose bumps to erupt on Frank’s neck.  He tried to cover himself as both officers drew batons.  He knew he had done wrong, yet their own corruption and unfairness was as evident as it was when he recalled the crystal-clear image of his father with the iron; his arm lowered just as theirs did—

“Wait!”  Frank cried out of desperation.

The effect was great and well-timed.  Both Irishmen paused, their arms frozen.  The one in front, his eyes bulging with anger and impatience; the second behind Frank, his irate behavior obscene.  “Alright, I’ll help!  I-I just don’t want no jail time, okee?”

“Fat chance.  Depends on what yeh show us.”

“If yeh want to whack these families”—

“Yer Irish, not ruddy Italian,” the second officer growled behind him, the baton still hovering.

Frank shook his head, on the verge of pissing himself.  “I-I coddle meself every time I got help them.  There’s a new business starting up…yeh buds heard of The Street?”

Both officers shook their heads.  Daft as a pair of banjaxed bars, Frank thought.

“The Whyos, eh?”

Both men remained unresponsive.

“Well, if I help yeh 5-0 them, can I slip off the hook?”

Both men paused, but had relinquished their batons.  Not a bad sign now.

A knock on the reflective mirror caused one of the officers to move outside and shut the door.  Minutes passed as the policeman paced behind Frank.  “How long’ve yeh been orangin’ buildings, Frank?”

Frank paused, considering his answer.  “This…this was my first time, and my last.”

The man snorted.  “Be damned if it isn’t.”

Frank almost responded, but the door opened again, and he was extremely grateful for a change of topic.  A lady walked in, followed by the other officer that had exited the room earlier.  Perching herself in a chair opposite Frank, she said, “Alright, but one twisted Langer and yeh’ll do the twenty-five fer life, no deal, just damn feckin’ hard time.”